


says the man on the bus

by ienablu



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Antagonistic Flirting, Episode: s02e07 The Writing on the Wall, Gen, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:05:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4147620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ienablu/pseuds/ienablu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ward doesn't switch to the Boston bus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	says the man on the bus

**Author's Note:**

> While I didn't consider it enough to tag for, the story has canon-levels Skye/Ward. Also, potential trigger warning for a discussion of suicide attempts.

The bus is five minutes out of Atlanta and Ward is missing something. The hairs on the back of his neck are raised. His left hand is trembling. He feels hyper-alert. He is missing something, and he has no idea what it is. SHIELD is his first guess. It can’t be SHIELD. Their numbers dropped drastically after the HYDRA takeover, Ward should be able to recognize any SHIELD agent.

Only, he barely recognized Trip in Philadelphia; had Ward not seen briefly seen him a few days prior, he doubts he would have been able to. During his months and months of solitude, he can only clearly recall Coulson in the beginning, and Skye in the end. Fitz, briefly, painfully, and Simmons more so than that. The agents who rushed him to medical, the agents who dragged him back to his cell, the agents who escorted him out of the facility, their faces are all foreign to him. Coulson wouldn’t slip and send out an agent Ward had seen before. Though if he had, Ward doesn’t know if he’d even notice.

It can’t be HYDRA – he gave them the location to meet, and he did not give them any reason to doubt he would be there. They have no reason to tail him, and even if they did, Ward would know.

It’s not any federal organization, either, Ward knows all their tells, would be able to notice a federal agent on instinct. It’s a paranoia that runs deep. He had seen an FBI agent back in Philadelphia, undercover, after a target that wasn’t Ward.

It has to be SHIELD.

He’s rusty. That, more than anything else, bothers him. He can’t remember the faces of any of the passengers he passed on his way to the back of the bus, not even the mother and son he had come aboard with. There’s a SHIELD agent on the bus, he slipped, he let Coulson get one over him; it bothers him, in the same way left hand won’t stop trembling bothers him.

He takes a deep breath in, and a deep breath out. He clenches his left hand into a fist. He stops thinking about the faces, and starts thinking about behavior, small details in body language, what everyone on the bus is doing now and was doing before–

It hits him almost instantly.

_Damnit._

Getting up and moving around is discouraged on long bus rides, but this early into a trip, there's a grace period for shuffling around. He needs to move now, if he wants to avoid drawing too much attention to himself. He needs to plan this out, he can’t let himself slip again, only plans slip through his hand when he tries to organize them. Muscle memory hasn’t failed him yet, though.

Ward stands up, pulls his bag down from the overhead compartment, and moves up a few rows to where a pretty blonde young woman has a book on her lap. She was on page 117 when he passed her in the station, she was on page 119 when he passed her heading towards his seat, and she's on page 121 now, though she's staring out the window.

The seat next to her is still open.

"Hey," he says. The agent in her would have seen him in the reflection of the window, but her cover persona would probably pretend to be looking at the scenery.

She turns and looks to him.

Ward gives her a charming smile. "I accidentally chose the seat between the gentleman who smoke an entire pack before the bus took off, and the bus’s bathroom – is this seat taken?"

"It's all yours," she says.

Ward stows his bag away above him, and slides down next to her. "Thanks," he says, giving her a wide smile. He nods towards her book. "Hope I'm not interrupting you?"

“The writing style isn’t for me," she says. She’s caught her miscalculation and explained it away, without giving any indication of doing so. Clever. She looks him up and down, and smiles. “I’m open to distractions.”

And now she’s trying to appeal to his ego. He can’t bring himself to pretend to be flattered. "If it’s not to your liking, why are you reading it?"

She shrugs again. "It's supplementary reading for one of my sociology classes."

“Where do you go to school?”

“KU.”

“Go Jayhawks,” Ward replies, which gets a laugh out of her. “You’re pretty far out from Kansas. Are you on vacation, or…?”

“Just a quick trip. Cousin got married. I got a nice excuse to step away from classes, but it’s the middle of the semester, I can’t take as long of a break as I would have liked to.”

She probably has her family tree planned out at least four generations back, could rattle off family fabrications for the entire trip. The thought of family makes the remnants of smoke in his lungs burn. "And what are you going to KU for? A sociology major?"

She huffs. "I hadn't really planned on it, really. I was actually thinking of going into law. Planning on it, really. I took part of a mock trial in middle school, and spent all of high school telling everyone I was going to be a lawyer. My friends knew I wanted to be a lawyer. My best friend went to visit law schools with me my senior year. All my family knew I wanted to be a lawyer. But sophomore year, I took a sociology class for one of my electives, and next thing I know, I’m going to my advisor to change degrees. My parents were completely amazed when I told them, my mom actually had to sit down. But you know how it is, you take that one class, and it changes everything for you."

“Well, I was a high school dropout,” Ward says, with a self-deprecating laugh. The humor fades from his voice as he continues, “But I know what you’re talking about. You think you’re content with your life, but then you’re given another option. And with that option, you realize that the path you’re on is not where you want to be. You want that other path. And you don’t know if it will get you a major you didn’t know you loved, or if it will be a worse path than the first, but… well, you committed to it, might as well see it through to the end.”

She studies him. “You sound like you’re more familiar with the second option.”

“I didn’t have a lot of choices, after dropping out of high school. The first path I took may have taken the wrong one.” He had meant it lightly, but it burns as soon as he says it.

She frowns, and everything from the pout of her mouth to the tilt of her head is soft, warm, inviting. But behind that, he can see her eyes are sharp, assessing. “I’m sure you’re doing everything you can to right your path.”

“I am,” he says, softly. It feels like a confession. “But we won’t know until the end, will we?”

“What’re you heading to Dallas for? Something to help right your path out there?”

“No, something unexpected came up. This is a detour.”

“You don’t seem to happy about it.”

“Is anyone ever happy to take a detour?”

“You never know,” she replies. Another flirty smile. “You might find something that makes it worth your while.”

“Falling into Coulson’s trap is hardly worth my while.”

She frowns. “Who?”

Her expression is perfectly crafted to confusion. It would be a convincing denial if Ward didn’t already _know_ she was SHIELD. “I can’t quite figure out whether they brought in you or Trip to replace me. I’d say Trip, given our similar training, but… he had a clean shot in the bus station. If Coulson wanted to replace me, he’d have brought in someone who wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Given the chance…” There’s only a handful of specialists _this_ good, and only a handful of them are female. They all have one thing in common. “You’d pull the trigger.”

“Of course,” she replies, dropping the pretense. “And Trip was begging to. Coulson just wants us to bring you in alive.”

“But sometimes you need to pull the trigger regardless of what your commanding officer says.”

“Like you did with Nash?”

Ward walked into that. He _should_ have known he was walking right into that. He keeps his tone even as he says, “Yes.”

She tilts her head to the side. “I’ve seen the footage, read the transcripts, the reports, all that, but I’m still not sure – were you following Garrett’s orders and going against Coulson’s, or were you going against both Garrett and Coulson’s orders?”

The moment is one Ward has played over in his memory repeatedly. He had been angry when he pulled that trigger. Angry at the Clairvoyant for shooting Skye. Angry that Garrett was the Clairvoyant. Angry that Nash wasn’t. Angry at the starting whisper of doubt in the back of his mind. “What do you think?” he deflects.

“I think you’re deflecting,” she says, “which makes me think it was the harder option for you, which makes me think Garrett had more planned for Nash.”

“Garrett had plans for everything.”

“Except dying.”

“Isn’t that the same for all of us?”

“Suppose so.” She pauses, leans more against the window, arms crossed over her chest. “So what’s the plan for you, Ward?”

“I already told you, I would love to tell you everything, but it’s not going to happen.”

“Oh, you’re already halfway there.” She says it carelessly, offhand.

It’s an interrogation technique that Ward is well-acquainted with. Claim to have the upperhand. Claim the information has already been given. Seem confident enough in the claim that they become defensive, worried. The paranoia that sets in makes them second guess themselves, makes tells more likely to be seen.

Best to call the bluff. “And what have I given away?”

Her gaze is almost sympathetic, pitying, as she says, “Far more than you meant to.”

Ward rolls his eyes. Ignores the prickle of paranoia. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

She studies him for a long moment. Then, blithely, “I think you need to get laid.”

Ward laughs. It’s loud and unexpected, and it draws the looks of a few passengers in front of them. He shakes his head. He should not have drawn attention to himself, he should have been able to contain that. He’s fading. “Was it your idea or Skye’s to recount all our conversations?”

“Whose do you think?”

Ward doesn’t want to think about it. “How is Skye, by the way?” 

“Oh, she’s _devastated_ that you’re gone. Spends the entire day moping around the base, cries herself to sleep at night, the works.”

It cuts, far deeper than Ward would like. It’s a joke, he knows it’s a joke. But there are some days where their confrontation in the cargo load loops in his memory. He had known she would not have reacted well to his loyalties to Garrett; he hadn’t known how badly it would _hurt_ her. Hadn’t known how badly the watery hitch in her voice would hurt him. He tried to make it up to her. He’s still trying.

Ward ignores the pang of guilt that goes with the memory. Instead, he wonders on how unintentional the cut was. She is adept at pushing his buttons. He didn’t used to have buttons. It takes a moment to adopt a neutral, unaffected tone. “Tell her not to cry too hard. I’ll see her again,” he says. “I made her a promise, and I do plan on following through with it. I have a few items that I need to take care of, first, but after that...”

“You plan on reuniting Skye with her father, I’ve heard. Have you ever met him?” she asks.

“We meet for coffee every Wednesday.”

She snorts. “I thought you had promised you would never lie.”

“That was to Skye.”

“What if I were Skye, then? What would you tell me?”

Dozens of different answers claw up his throat. _I’m sorry. Don’t assume the worst of me. I’ve never lied to you._ “We would be having a very different conversation,” Ward says, evenly. He considers her. “Why didn’t you send her in?”

“Why do you think?”

“I think sending Skye in would be the only guarantee that Coulson would have that I wouldn’t use this,” he says, turning his wrist towards her so she sees the trigger.

“You’re not going to use that,” she says, dismissively.

“I don’t know what was taught in your specialist class, but that’s the last thing to say to someone with the trump card.”

“We were taught that it’s not a trump card if you’re not going to use it. Or if you’re not going to bluff convincingly enough to make me think you won’t.”

Ward bristles. He leans in. “A bomb wired that could kill the thirty-two passengers on this bus? That tilts things in my favor.”

"I'm not sure if you're just arrogant,” she starts, slowly, “or if spending weeks in complete isolation has _completely_ addled you, but I hate to break it to you, things are not in your favor. For you to be here in Atlanta, that means you could not have slept ever since you escaped your protective detail. Unless you slept on the bus here from Philly, but you’re an agent, agents don’t sleep on buses. You are running on _fumes_. And besides that, you have been in near isolation for the past six months. Your hand was trembling when you were walking through the station. It still is. You are running on fumes, and those fumes are not going to get you much farther. And sure, May is convinced you're not bluffing, with whatever bomb you were able to whip up, and maybe that's because she was there through your three suicide attempts, but here, looking at you? You are _bluffing_. You have a promise to keep to Skye, you're not going to kill yourself. The only weapon you have, you won't use. And I never excelled with bombs, but I know of a few ways I can take you out that won't have you accidentally detonate. Things are not in your favor. _Nothing_ is in your favor.”

Ward stares at her. He feels oddly appreciative of her unrelenting honesty, and blunt nature. However, he feels more uncomfortable with the idea that she is entirely right – Ward's never been happy being the lowest person on the ladder. Distantly, he thinks, _No one will ever screw with you again._

She seems to be waiting for a reply, though.

Ward has one for her. Won’t put things in his favor, will likely tilt them further in her favor, but it will shake her, surprise her. "Recent."

It wasn’t the response she was expecting. Her brow furrows, slightly, trying to parse his meaning.

"Three _recent_ suicide attempts," Ward clarifies.

Her eyes widen just enough where Ward knows he’s succeeded. He smirks. "That wasn't in your file,” she says, blandly. Her gaze is curious. “What happened?”

It’s none of her business. But he shrugs, keeping his gaze locked with hers. "Second mission I ran with Garrett, he wanted me to recruit the target to HYDRA, to Garrett's side. I couldn't. I couldn't let him blow my cover, though, and had to take him out. Garrett was furious. I tried hanging myself. I failed Garrett, I was a failure. Seemed like a perfectly logical leap to make."

"I've looked over your file," she just says. She stares at him for a few moments longer, a frown etching into her features as she reassesses him. "You were loyal to Garrett, but Garrett should have reported that. All attempts have to be logged in personnel files." She spends another few moments staring at him, but she seems mostly speechless at this point. "Let me guess," she says, after a few long minutes. "He was furious when he found out."

"How could you have guessed?" Ward asks. He tilts his lips up into something like a smile, but it doesn't mask the bitter aftertaste.

She shakes her head.

"For the longest time, Garrett was the only thing that mattered in my life. I took every mission he gave to me, would have taken any mission, suicide mission or no. What I owed him was the only thing that mattered, the only thing keeping me alive."

Before solitary, Coulson had asked, _Who are you, without Garrett?_

It hadn’t been the first time he had wondered that. The question had first occurred to him when he had to reboot John’s biomechanics, and had haunted him even since. In the six months of solitary confinement, it was one of his closest companions.

"I care about Skye," Ward tells her. "I want to keep my promise to her. I _will_ keep my promise to her. But she's not the only thing keeping me alive."

"What is, then?" It seems more a personal curiosity than interrogation.

Ward just smiles at her, thin and wan. He’ll take a small victory of her unanswered curiosity.

They fall into an uneasy silence.

Ward knows that he's exhausted, but he's been able to put it out of his mind ever since he escaped his security detail. Having her so explicitly list out all the reasons he should be has made it increasingly difficult to ignore. His eyelids feel heavy, and his body feels like dead weight.

If she were smart, she would take this moment to follow through on her threat to take him out.

"You should get some sleep," she says, picking her book back up. "You need it. We’re at an impasse, there's nothing either of us can do right now, so why not?"

It’s an interesting reversal after her insistence on her dominance. "You said something about knowing a few ways to take me out."

"Yes," she says. "I could have done that from the moment you sat next to me, though. And I could take if you were asleep next to me, but I won't."

"And why is that?"

"Because then it would be easy," she says. She shoots him a carefree smile, but her gaze is all too knowing as she continues, "And if the job were easy..."

"Are you having fun?"

Her smiles takes a more mischievous hint. She settles back into her seat, and opens her book up again.

Ward plays the scenarios out in his head. He could try and goad her back into conversation, something to keep him alert and talking and functioning, but she wouldn't yield. The challenge would make it easier for him, almost, but there's a small sick part of him that wants to go to sleep next to this SHIELD agent, just to see if he can wake up on the other side unscathed.

_Don't trust anyone._

This isn’t trust, though.

This is… 

 

*

 

“We’re approaching the next stop in ninety seconds.”

Ward is instantly awake. His heart hammers in his ears. Information filters in. Bomb strapped and detonation ready, but he’s otherwise unarmed, the nearest gun is in her purse but it may be an ICER. Greyhound bus number 1120, thirty-two, none have moved. No FBI, no CIA, no HYDRA, one SHIELD agent to his side. No hostiles, he’s safe.

He lets out a slow exhale.

She’s just gazing at him steadily. “You good?” she asks. “I don’t want you getting twitchy when new people start coming onto the bus.”

“I don’t get twitchy.”

“You were pretty twitchy in the bus station.”

Ward is more exhausted than he was when going to sleep. “I wasn’t twitchy,” he says, but it’s nothing more than a token protest.

The bus decelerates.

The next stop is Birmingham, Alabama. Six passengers leave the bus, and three passengers enter the bus. The first two settle in more towards the front – third row right window seat, fifth row left aisle seat.

The third passenger is Trip.

Trip zeroes in on Ward, his gaze flicking briefly to Bobbi, before he locks eyes with him. Lugging a giant duffel bag, he makes his way towards the back of the bus. He’s stumbling under the bulging weight of his duffel, bobbing between the aisle seats. His expression is honest and open, and he gives out charming smiles and polite apologies as he passes down the bus.

Ward expects Trip to take the opportunity to accidentally bodycheck him. Instead, Trip just brushes by. More out of fear of detonating the bomb than out of any good well, surely. Ward watches him settle in the seat in the far back that Ward had initially gone to. He’s not sure if it’s intentional or not, but he huffs a laugh all the same.

Trip’s gaze goes to War, and the pleasant facade is dropped, replaced by a dark glare.

Ward resists the urge to give him a wave. Turning back towards the front, he notices that a folded scrap of paper has landed on his lap. Ward opens the note.

 _ **FUCK YOU**_ , it reads.

She’s moved in closer to him, and she snorts.

Her proximity has a puff of warm air against the side of his neck. It tickles, and Ward twitches slightly.

Her eyes gaze down to his neck, then back to up to look him in the eyes. She leans in closer, and whispers, “I forgot that you were ticklish.”

Ward fights to ignore the crawling of his skin. He’s not sure if he wants her to back away or come in closer. Instead, he remarks, “Why is that? You were the one who suggested Skye tell you everything about us.”

“I’m not sure where you two were an _us_ or not.” Her gaze on him is sharp, and assessing. She pulls back gradually. “I can see why she was attracted to the man you pretended to be.”

“Like it or not, they were the same person.”

“No, you were different then. You’re different _now_. Rougher. Scruffier.”

Ward reaches up, rubs at his beard. “I’m shaving the damn thing off as soon as I can.”

“Good. You looked far better without it.”

“Are you flirting with me on Coulson’s orders, or is this part of your fun?”

In response, her tongue flicks out to slowly run along her bottom lip.

Unbidden, his gaze traces the movement.

She bites down on her lip, and grins widely. “You really need to get laid.”

“You offering?”

“Would you even be interested if I were?”

“I have far more important matters to deal with.”

“Skye and her father reunited. But what after that? You were HYDRA, aligned with them at least, but I don’t see you really going back to them.”

“There are a few things I want to see through, and most involve me opposing HYDRA as to assisting them.”

“So basically everything Coulson’s going to be working on?”

Ward gives her a tight smile. “It it can’t be helped.”

“No love lost between you two?”

“Honestly? I never really cared about Coulson.”

“Bullshit,” she replies. “But go on. How do you feel about him now?”

“He sold me out to Christian.” That betrayal still makes his pulse quicken. “I can forgive a lot from the last few months. But not that.”

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t believe forgiveness is so easily set. Not in SHIELD. Coulson can work for yours. You can work for his. The only question is if you want to.”

“Not really.”

“But you want Skye’s.”

 _Yes_ , Ward thinks, but he doesn’t reply.

“I’d like to make you an offer,” she says, finally.

“I’m not interested.”

She smiles. “No, this is better for all parties involved. Disarm the bomb. Let SHIELD take you in. You cooperate, that goes noticed. We keep you imprisoned, a little while longer, you give us intel. You give us signs of good faith, we give you signs of good faith, maybe we can salvage something out of this.”

Ward huffs a laugh. “Does Coulson really think I’d take that offer? I seem to remember him saying I have never been, and will never be part of his team.” A beat. “Also, that I was a deluded son of a bitch.”

“This isn’t Coulson’s offer, it’s mine. I’m going against orders, actually. I was supposed to knock you out with this.” She flashes the needle of a syringe from under the cuff of her sweater. “Simmons is going to be angry that I didn’t. I know Trip already is. Because here’s the thing. They were there for your betrayal. I wasn’t. Coulson, May, Skye, Trip, Fitz and Simmons, they’ve all told me what went down. I know how Skye broke down sobbing in a bathroom, but still gave you a chance to apologize, how it went down. I know how Simmons and Fitz were _screaming_ at you to stop, pleading with you _not_ to drop them into the ocean. I know how Coulson wanted you to give up information, become a willing informant. I know how they all gave you a second chance, how badly they all wanted you to take it, how badly betrayed they were when you didn’t. 

“I also know how you were under Garrett’s thumb. How you didn’t have a choice. But Garrett’s gone, and now you finally have a choice. You told Coulson you thought you were rebuilding trust? This is your opportunity to prove that.” Her hand clasps his. “Come in with me.”

It’s not entirely subtle. A reassuring touch after six months of isolation, when Ward’s shown to be hypersensative to touch and stimulation. As well, she’s voicing all the reassurances he’s wanted – someone understanding his position, giving him the chance he’s wanted.

He considers what it’d be like to take the chance. Were she not pandering to him, it might not be a bad offer.

But Ward may have been in Garrett’s debt, but he was never under Garrett’s thumb. He’s always made his own decisions. He’s on this path, he may as well see it through to the end.

“I’ll make you a counteroffer,” Ward replies.

She raises an eyebrow.

“There are two bombs on the bus right now. The one I am wearing, and the one in my bag stowed above us.” Her eyes widen. He thrills at pulling one over her. “You let me get off at the next stop, you don’t follow me, and I don’t press either trigger. It’s a rather rudimentary design, I was a bit pressed for time and supplies. I don’t know how much time you have spent diffusing bombs, but I know Trip will be able to take care of it.”

Her eyes narrow, and her expression shuts down. For the first time, she looks pissed.

It’s pretty satisfying.

She stares up him. “You’re making a mistake,” she tells him. 

“We won’t know until the end, will we?”

He takes the book from her, and starts flipping through it.

 

*

 

The driver announces their upcoming stop – Tuscaloosa, five minutes.

“This is my stop,” Ward says.

“Mhm,” she replies.

The bus pulls off the highway and starts towards the bus station.

"Have you figured it out, by the way?"

Ward raises an eyebrow. "Bobbi Morse."

Bobbi blinks. "Not what I was referring to," she says, slowly, "but I'm impressed. And flattered. Though I was talking about that question Coulson gave you to ponder.”

Ward stills.

“Who are you–”

“Without Garrett,” Ward finishes. “I remember.”

“Have you figured it out yet?”

Ward is a fighter.

 Ward is a survivor.

Ward is fucking pissed off.

Ward is calling his own shots.

 Ward is forging his own path.

“Have you?” he replies.

Bobbi frowns at him.

“It was lovely getting to know you, Bobbi,” Ward tells her. He reaches up, brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. Leaning in, angling for the comm, he whispers, “I’ll be in touch soon.”

Her hand goes up to rest on his chest. “I certainly hope so,” she replies, her eyes not leaving his.

He smirks at her. And then Ward is making his way off the bus, finding the nearest departing bus. Fort Knox, good. Ward has a hot box and contacts there.

He settles on the bus, and reevaluates himself.

His shirt rustles, and he pats himself down.

There’s a piece of paper tucked into his shirt pocket. A corner of college-ruled notebook paper, edges neatly torn. There’s a phone number, Kansas area code, and a loopy _call me xx_ below it.

He plugs the number into his phone. 

It rings three times before it picks up.

Bobbi answers it with a, “You son of a bitch.”

“I’m impressed,” Ward tells her.

“That makes two of us,” Bobbi replies. “You bluffed without so much as a dummy in your bag. And I fell for it. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so thoroughly humiliated.”

She’s appealing to his ego, he knows, but he still smiles. “And you thought I couldn’t bluff.”

“I underestimated, you Ward. I don’t do that often.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Oh, you don’t have to be. I’m not making the same mistake twice.”

It doesn’t feel like an idle threat.

“You know, even with this little stunt, my offer isn’t off the table.”

“I left it there for a reason.”

“And I would love to hear what that reason is.”

“Have you figure it out yet?”

There’s a breathy sound that could be a laugh or a sigh. “Trip says hi, by the way.”

Ward laughs. “Somehow I doubt that, Agent Morse.”

She laughs. “I was trying to be polite. I take it you don’t want me to reciprocate the message?”

“I’ll live.”

Bobbi hums. “I’ll send Skye your love, though. Keep in touch,” she says.

“I will,” he promises

He breaks down his phone, snapping the SIM card in half, thinking of the best way to discard the pieces.

He keeps Bobbi’s number.


End file.
